


Together We'll Find Home

by knockout_mouse



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Autistic Character, Autistic Clark Kent, Bisexual Bruce Wayne, Bisexual Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne is Not Batman, Fluff and Angst, Kansas, M/M, Pre-Capes, Protective Bruce Wayne, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery, Small Towns, Smallville - Freeform, The Kent Farm, Touch-Starved, Young Bruce Wayne, Young Love, may raise the rating for sexy times who knows, young clark kent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-08 05:25:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16423244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knockout_mouse/pseuds/knockout_mouse
Summary: 20 year old Clark returns home from dropping out of college, unable to handle the rapid changes to his body and senses that leave him confused to who he is and what his purpose is on Earth.21 year old Bruce is on a long drive through the loneliest road of the Midwest, searching for answers after he fails the grueling challenges of The Demon's Head.Two boys searching for a home and a purpose, and find both in each other.





	1. The Loneliest Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Homesick and lonesome and I'm feeling kind of blue  
> Feeling kind of blue, boys, feeling kind of blue  
> Homesick and lonesome and I'm feeling kind of blue  
> I'm on my long journey home"
> 
> [Long Journey Home by The Bedquilt Ramblers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LB0CoBEmDGQ)

**U.S. Route 50, Lowell County**

Everything was becoming too much for him again. Every radio station was either gospel or country music, he hadn't seen civilization for at least two hours, and slowly but surely the sun was setting, leaving him cold and tense in a car that was as much made for Kansas and he was. Bruce switched on his brights and gripped the steering wheel tighter. It'd been awhile since he'd driven a car - or at least anything that wouldn't be considered a weapon - and the cushy seats and GPS seemed an unnecessary luxury after the years he'd spent hiking through mountain chains and starving in the desert and... and...

He gritted his teeth and flipped on the radio again. Anything was preferable to allowing his thoughts to wander. A forlorn crooner sang about lost love and whiskey, the voice drifting into the night air as Bruce tried to focus on the road and what it represented: he was leaving his past behind. He had to. Out here in the flyover states there were no hoards of prying reporters or paparazzi. No one from Gotham who would might recognize him as the long-absent Billionaire Boy.

Flip. Another channel, then another. Flip, flip, flip. Finally, he landed on a harsh Midwestern accent reporting the latest news.

> _ "... yeah this has been quite a year for twisters in South Central Kansas. But it looks like from here on out we won't have to run for the storm shelter, what with summer winding down an autumn coming up quick." _
> 
> _ "I don't know Bob, I thought the same thing last September and then one took down that old tree in my backyard, you remember that?" _
> 
> _ "That's true, that's true. So, what do we have coming up this week, Jeff?" _
> 
> _ "Well there's that supernova the astronomers predict will show up soon." _
> 
> _ "Ooh yeah, I'm kinda excited for that! Make sure to get out your telescopes. It'll look like a star just popped up in the sky but--" _

Bruce felt his gaze wander up towards the night sky as the two men on the radio continued to prattle on. Out here there was no light pollution to block out the stars, and god had he been missing out. Thousands upon thousands of pinpricks spread out from one horizon to the other, a sight so rare that as a child he'd thought the photographs in magazines were fake. Only once he'd been sent out on his first mission for The Demon's Head did he get to see the night sky in all its glory. A small comfort when frostbite threatened to seize up his fingers.

_ No, don’t go there. Just keep driving, put all of that behind you.  _

Suddenly, a dark figure appeared in his headlights. With a bang, the impact sent Bruce jolting forward in his seat, the car thrown off balance as whatever it'd hit ran out of sight. The car flipped onto its side, the radio falling silent and the lights flickering out. He lay there in total darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust and a plan to form. But there was something wrong with his head, something a bit fuzzy.

He gritted his teeth and shoved himself up, struggling out of his seat belt and crawling out onto the road. The news reporters hadn't been lying about autumn coming quickly, he thought, as the night air quickly chilled his skin.

Biting back a wince, Bruce rolled onto his back, allowing memories to rush in as he stared blankly up at the stars. Old memories, new ones, some so fresh the bruises still lingered on his body. Somewhere out there, he was fifteen and crying in the frozen tundra, huddled around a fire and staring up at a sky he couldn't believe existed. Somewhere out there, he was eighteen and lying against a crumbling wall, slowly pulling a spear out of his leg, inch by inch. So this was nothing. A car wreck? Miles from any town with no one knowing where he was? Easy. He'd suffered worse, he'd been built and groomed to withstand so much more. Ra's would be ashamed of him if he gave in so quickly to a simple head injury. Ashamed of him for having fallen so far, after years of training and sacrifice.

So when he felt the first few tears trickle down his face, he had to bury his head in his arms and hope the universe would forgive him. Because he certainly couldn't forgive himself.

\------------------

Everything was becoming too much for him again. There weren’t even that many customers in the diner, but he could hear all their conversations, jumbled together in an incessant clamor. The lights above buzzed, dishes clanked in the kitchen, and the wood of the booth’s table was rough against his hands. From the jukebox a country song blasted: a singer he didn’t recognize mourning lost love and whiskey. Clark had hoped if he came home the problems that plagued his past few semesters at college would ease up. If he just returned to the familiar, grounded himself in the places he’d known all his life, maybe the lights wouldn’t be so bright and the noises would finally quiet. 

Clark fidgeted, looking at his watch before glancing towards the door. It was a futile motion, considering he’d be able to hear his parents’ truck pull up well before they entered. The fact that he could even hear something like that... it would almost be funny if not for how terrifyingly bizarre his body had become. 

Wait, there! Just a slight rumble. Gears grinding together with old age. Clark perked up and fidgeted with his glasses as he waited for the truck to stop and a pair of familiar footsteps to walk in. When Martha and Jonathan Kent entered, the room seemed to brighten around them -- and finally,  _ there _ , finally his brain calmed. Not entirely, but it was the first time in weeks the scent of human sweat and the stomp of feet weren’t crushing him from all sides.

The peace became stilted when Martha plopped down in the booth opposite him, followed by Pa and his ticking analog watch. How had Clark never noticed that sound before? And his mother’s perfume was… cloying. Almost suffocating. He tried to hold his breath and failed, sputtering into his drink.

“Oh goodness, sweetheart, are you sick?” Martha asked. She leaned across the table and ran a hand through his hair, but they quickly became stuck in the gel Clark was using to tame his curls. She frowned and settled for placing her hand on his shoulder.

“Sure, Ma.” Clark coughed, mustering up a smile, “I’m fine.”

His parents looked towards each other and shared a silent conversation with expressions. Jonathan’s brow deepened and Martha’s shot up in reproach. A frown, a nose wrinkle, then they turned back to him.

Jonathan cleared his throat, “So, uh, Clark what… what brings you back to Smallville? I mean, I know you said over the phone you were thinking about dropping out but…”

Clark sighed, wishing he could melt into his seat. He bit his lip, “Yeah, yeah. I… yeah, I did. It’s just…” he sighed, letting his gaze drift out towards the window, “It’s been a really hard semester for me. Couple of semesters actually. I really wanted to push through it, to keep going,” he ducked his head back down, “To make you guys proud.”

“We are proud of you, sweetheart.” Martha gripped his hands, “No matter what you chose to do, we’re proud.”

“Exactly. What your ma said.”

Clark felt his eyes beginning to water and lowered his head further. The song on the jukebox was becoming loud again, the wood was too abrasive… even his mother’s hands clutched too tightly around his. He pulled back and began to unconsciously hug himself.

“Y-you know, I think it’s better for me here. The world is too big outside Smallville. Too loud. I just… m-maybe I could find a job, settle down somewhere?”

His voice trailed off, but was replaced by Martha, “It’s okay, dear. You can move back into your old room, and stay as long as you like.”

There was an almost inaudible grunt of surprise from Jonathan, but Clark heard it anyway, like everything else in this increasingly crowded diner. 

Clark sniffed and quickly wiped his eyes, facing them again, “Thank you. It means a lot. R-really.”

“Of course.” Martha said.

“That’s what we’re here for son. Make sure you get a good start in the world.” Jonathan said.

Except he hadn’t. He was supposed to go to college, graduate with a fancy diploma, become a journalist. It wasn’t his lifelong passion by any means - he’d arrived to campus Undecided. But now that he’d gotten a taste of what it was like to hunt down answers, pursue the truth, stay up late pouring over court records and old news articles… Smallville wasn’t enough anymore. This: returning home, settling for any job he could get… it was surrender.

“You know it’s funny, I remember when we used to take you here for your birthday,” Jonathan said, “And you’d squirm and beg us not to tell the waitress it was your special day, but we did it anyway, and oooh the blush on your little face when they all came out and sang to you.”

Martha laughed, “You were so tiny then, I think the cake they gave you was the size of your head.”

“Are you kidding me? They didn’t hand out whole cakes for free, that’s bad business. Nah, this is where they give ya a little cup with some ice cream and fudge.”

“No, I distinctly remember them giving him a cake once, back before they got new management and stopped serving  _ real _ food. Remember that Clark?”

The two turned to see their son sitting blankly in his seat, eyes closed and head tilted slightly. He wasn’t moving.

“Clark?” Jonathan leaned over to rest a hand on his son’s shoulder, then to shake him. No response.

“ _ C l a r k ?” _ a voice echoed in Clark’s brain, but for once he found he could ignore it. He could shut out the noise and focus back on the sound of crashing metal and tires screeching which had caught his attention in the first place. Somewhere, out there, he thought he could hear something… a heartbeat? Could he even hear heartbeats? That’s what it sounded like, distant, stuttering, desperate. A groan, and then lungs shaking as whoever it was started to cry. Clark had heard accidents before, in the city where they were practically a weekly occurrence. Horns honking, metal crunching, people cursing. But this was different. This person sounded lonely, and scared, and that gripped at Clark’s heart, weighing on his chest. He had to help. He had to find them.

He stood up without realizing it, legs moving on their own accord out the door, bell chiming after him. He was halfway across the parking lot when he broke out into a run. And then he began to run faster. Faster and faster, into the darkness and over roads and hills -- faster, faster, faster! For the first time in  _ years _ he felt like a kid again, rushing through the fields on the farm with his arms spread out to let the wheat shafts tickle his skin. A grin bloomed across his face, and the cool night air pumped through his lungs. He didn’t need to stop. Didn’t have to slow down to catch his breath. The more he pushed, the quicker he ran, the boy inside him shrieking with glee as the world condensed into the swift caress of wind and the blur of his legs. 

And then all too quickly it stopped. He found himself standing near the wreckage of a car and the silhouette of a body lying in the road. He rushed over and reached for a pulse, sighing in relief when he saw the man’s chest slowly rise and fall. He looked so pale in the moonlight, and his face and hair had become crusted with blood from what looked to be a gash across his forehead. It’d stopped bleeding, thank goodness, but he was still unconscious. That had to be bad, right?

Feeling a little guilty, Clark fumbled around in the man’s pockets for any sign of identification and found none. He tried to gently shake the man awake, but his eyes remained closed and his breath painfully slow. Clark glanced over at the huge dent in the rather expensive-looking car. What on earth had this guy run into?

Suddenly, the man groaned and his eyes peaked open, clouded over and unfocused. He tried to sit up and Clark held him down.

“Ah, sorry, that might not be a good idea. You’ve been in an accident. Is there someone I should call?”

“Huh?” the man grunted, squinting up at him.

“What’s your name?” Clark asked.

The man winced and his eyes fluttered shut again, “No hospitals. Just… get me to the nearest town.”

“I can do better than that, bud.” Clark grinned, and cradled the man in his arms, slowly standing up. He expected the extra weight to be a challenge, but perhaps all his years doing farm work had paid off: the man hardly weighed anything to him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you someplace safe.” he whispered, and then he began to run again, letting his legs take him towards the sound of his parents’ voices in the distance. His ma and pa would be so worried about him taking off all of a sudden, but they were going to be even more surprised when he showed up with a stranger in tow.

\------------------

Bruce had a dream. A lovely dream, or at least lovely compared to all the nightmares that’d haunted him recently. He was lying in the middle of nowhere, staring up at the sky, gaze drifting in and out of focus. There was nothing but the wind and the numbness of his body as he waited. For death? To wake up? He couldn’t say.

And then he opened his eyes again and there was a giant, with loose black curls that tossed around in the wind, and a beautiful smile, and a voice of honey. The giant had a thick Midwestern accent, but it matched him: dressed in flannel and rugged jeans. He picked him up like Bruce was weightless, and murmured something about taking him someplace safe. It was nice. Nicer than anything he’d had in a long, long time. 

But it was only a dream, and as all dreams did, he knew it would end soon.  _ Just not now, please,  _ he begged,  _ just let me stay for a little while.  _

But the universe did not listen, and so he woke up to a blinding light, his body aching and battered, with no trace left of his gentle giant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finals season at my uni so I'm writing this purely based on when I have the time and energy. But that doesn't mean I don't love and crave feedback. I love my boys and I love the Midwest.


	2. Pancakes

Clark awoke to golden sunshine filtering through his curtains. For a moment he lay there, trying to figure out why his bed was bigger, why he was covered in quilts, why the window wasn’t in its normal spot. Only when he sat up and saw a 90s motivational poster on the wall did he realize he was in his childhood bedroom. He let out a deep sigh and smiled.

He was home.

The quiet was almost healing, a cool relief after months of thin dorm walls. He allowed himself a moment to stretch across his quilts, sinking his fingers into their familiar texture. It was amazing how much the little things mattered in hushing his mind. At the very least, he’d been right about that.

The silence abruptly ended with a loud crash from downstairs. Clark leapt out of bed and towards the stairs, taking them by two. As he reached the bottom, a chair clattered across the hardwood floor.

In the doorway to the kitchen stood Jonathan Kent, nursing a cup of coffee and already dressed in overalls, a frown on his face that Clark was all too familiar with. He’d been at the receiving end of that grimace every time he disobeyed his parents. Even now, the sight of it made Clark shudder.

Across the living room, near the couch, the man from last night hunched over with legs spread wide and arms held near his chest, hands open like he was going to reach out and grab Jonathan at any moment. The man’s eyes darted from the farmer’s face to his hands and up to his face again.

“Who are you? Where am I?” he snarled.

“Pa?”

Jonathan sighed, “It’s okay, Clark. I think he’s just startled.”

“ _He_ would like to know where _he_ is!”

Clark slowly inserted himself between the two, hands held out in caution, “It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re safe. I found you at a car wreck. Before you passed out you told me you didn’t want to be brought to the hospital, so I brought you back here. This is my parents’ home… my home.”

The man continued to glare, but his stance relaxed a little, “And who might you be?”

“Clark Kent, pleasure to meet you.” he smiled, extending a hand. The man did not take it.

“Jonathan Kent, Clark’s father. This is my farm.” Jonathan said, stepping around Clark so they were side by side.

The man humphed, and squinted out the windows. After several tense moments, he turned to them again and pointed at his forehead.

“This wound, you bandaged it?”

“That would me, dear.” a voice piqued up from behind the men. Martha came down the stairs, tying an apron around her waist as she headed for the kitchen, “It’s good to see you’re up. How’s your head? See and hear everything alright?”

The man did not answer, settling back onto the couch with a measured glare. In the moonlight he’d looked so innocent and helpless, crumpled up in Clark’s arms. Apparently that was no longer the case, because in daylight this guy looked absolutely terrifying.

Unfazed by the paranoid stranger in her living room, Martha continued to shout from her place at the stove, cracking eggs into a mixing bowl and stirring with her favorite wooden spoon. “You still like blueberry pancakes, Clark?”

Clark felt a smile spread across his face. Oh how he’d missed those pancakes! “Yes’m.”

“How about you mister, what kind do you like?”

The man tilted his head in surprise, “Pancakes?”

“Yeah, uh… flapjacks? Hotcakes? I don’t what you call ‘em wherever you're from.”

The man squeezed his eyes shut, then took a deep breath.

When he opened his eyes again the guarded expression was gone, replaced by a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “Plain pancakes will be fine, thank you.”

“That’s an awfully quick change in attitude.” Jonathan muttered.

“Well if you just treat people with respect and hospitality then they’ll stop being so jumpy.” Martha said, before reaching over to the radio on her windowsill and switching it to some cheerful-sounding banjos.  Jonathan joined her in the kitchen, coffee still gripped tightly in hand, leaving Clark to stand awkwardly in the middle of the living room. Slowly, as if to avoid spooking him, Clark edged down onto the chair across from the mysterious man.

The man began to gingerly touch his forehead, inspecting the bandages. Clark noticed and smiled, sitting forward, “You don’t need to worry about infection. My Ma has been patchin’ up my Pa for years now. Even stitched up one of our barn cats once.”

The man raised an eyebrow, “Not exactly reassuring, but thank you anyway.”

Clark grinned, shyly tucking a curl behind his ear, “So, you know my name, but I’m afraid I didn’t catch yours?”

“Never gave it.” the man replied simply. He seemed to catch himself, and the smile appeared again, “Bruce. I appreciate what you did for me last night, but I’m afraid I can’t stay. I’ll need to get back on the road as soon as possible. Is my car still at the crash sight?”

“Ah, well, ya see, yes and no.” Clark rubbed the back of his neck, “I mean it’s still _there_ , but I doubt you’ll be able to drive it any time soon. It’s really bunged up from the crash. Do you remember what you hit?”

Bruce shook his head slowly, “No... I can’t remember much of anything.”

He looked out the window again, eyes towards the distant horizon, and Clark began to twiddle his thumbs, a silence falling between them. Soon, the scent of fried batter drifted through the house, and Martha’s voice called from the kitchen.

“Claaarrrkk! Need to set the table! Make sure you set one extra place for our guest!”

“I know Ma, I’m coming.” Clark said, rolling his eyes playfully. He turned to see if Bruce was watching, but the man was still staring out the window. Part of him wished he could know what Bruce was thinking.

“Claaaaaarrrrkkkk!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!”

\------------------

Bruce has been stranded plenty of times in his life, whether it was in the desert or in the unforgiving alleyways of a far-off city. He’d even hidden in an abandoned barn once in Poland. But he’d never found himself waking up in a farmhouse with overstuffed sofas and doilies framed on the wall. It was… unsettling. Too calm, too quiet.

Then the man in the overalls had entered, tall and fit for his age, and staring directly at him. It’d only taken seconds for Bruce to swing himself off the couch and into a fighting stance. His muscles moved from memory and his feet planted into the carpet, as he leveled his best intimidating glare at the man. Who, for a solid minute, peered at him with a disapproving frown, completely unfazed by Bruce’s obvious knowledge of martial arts. My god, what had this man _been_ through if he wasn’t bothered by skilled jiu jitsu?

Next to arrive was an even taller, even fitter young man who looked to be about the same age as Bruce. He vaguely recognized him from the night before: the glasses, the flannel, those big blue eyes. And finally, the woman arrived. ‘Ma’. Martha, he later heard her called. Out of all of them she seemed the easiest to manipulate, and certainly the easiest to win over. All it would take was a charming smile and the remnants of the manners he’d learned as a child.

It became abundantly clear, however, upon sitting down at the breakfast table, that Martha Kent was not easy to manipulate nor to win over, and that she had the slyness of a fox. Ten minutes into passing around pancakes and syrup, she leaned back in her seat and leveled a gentle smile at him.

“So where you from? We don’t get too many new folks in these parts.”

That was a complicated question. _By birth? Gotham. Recently? Half of Eastern Europe._ He cleared his throat and kept his eyes on his dish, “The east coast. I’m traveling cross country down Route 50.”

“Ooh that sounds like fun.” Martha beamed, eyes piercing, "What do you do for a living?"

 _Think, think, think_. "I'm a computer technician. Coding, programs, that sort of thing."

"Is that a dangerous job?" Martha asked.

"What?"

She picked up a bowl of butter and offered a sickeningly unhealthy amount to him, “Oh nothing! I was just wondering since you seem to know a little bit about self defense. Butter?”

“No ma’am.” he muttered. He hated when people got too nosy for their own good. The free food was setting him on edge too. Nobody ever just gave out food for free, even seemingly hospitable country bumpkins. There was always a price to pay, either now or later.

“I was real worried when I found you.” Clark said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs, “It’s good to see you weren’t hurt too badly.”

 _I’ve suffered far worse._ Bruce coughed, “Where’s the closest repair shop?”

Jonathan leaned back in his chair, mulling it over, “Well, let’s see…”

All of a sudden, a flap in the back door sprung open and a droopy-looking coon dog scuttled across the kitchen tiles, eyes hidden behind tuffs of grey hair. The dog immediately skidded over to Clark, sniffing all along his pant leg, then noticed the newcomer in the house and began to look back and forth, trying to figure out which human to smell first.

“Blue! Was wondering when you’d show up!” Clark grinned, grabbing Blue by the face and nuzzling its snout.

“Oh yeah, the old girl has missed you since you went off to college.” Jonathan said, “Her sniffer ain’t so good anymore, so it took her awhile to realize you were here.”

“Aww that’s okay, Blue.” Clark said, then looked up at Bruce, “Do you like dogs?”

“I’m neutral to them.” Bruce said flatly. The dog looked over at the sound of his voice, and switched to sniffing him. He cleared his throat, “Uh, so as you were saying…?”

Jonathan’s smile faded, “Hmm? Oh, right, repair shop. You’ll wanna go over to Ted’s, he’s about a mile away. I can drive you there tomorrow if you like.”

Bruce nodded, then swiftly stood up, wiping dog slobber off his hand. As he left to get some fresh air (and avoid more socializing), Blue tried to follow him, tail wagging. The dog whined when the screen door shut in front of her, and turned to peer over at her owners.

Clark smiled, “Don’t take it personal, Blue, he’s like that with everybody. Now, can you bring me a toy?”

As he watched his dog totter off to find something to play with, Clark leaned back in his chair and let out a deep sigh. Part of him was glad to be home; he felt normal again, like his college years had just been a long nightmare and he was finally waking up.

But another part of him, deeper down, remembered how fast he’d run the night before, faster than any human should’ve been able to, and he knew something was wrong. Something had changed, permanently: this house, these walls, this town… it was a life he could never get back.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce may have martial arts but Jonathan Kent had a steaming mug of coffee and the iron will of a man who chased the bank off his property several times with a pitchfork.  
> I'll be busy filming my final project all next week so... here's a doggo in the meantime!


End file.
